


The Extremest Point

by Gileonnen



Category: Richard II - Shakespeare
Genre: Daddy Issues, Early Modern English Pastiche, Gen, Throwing Gages and Picking Them Up, Tiny Stuttering Knights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 13:56:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gileonnen/pseuds/Gileonnen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the early days of a new king's reign, Harry Percy demands the trial that he was promised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Extremest Point

**Author's Note:**

  * For [speakmefair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/speakmefair/gifts).



The boy comes upon him in an unguarded moment, while Edward is kneeling in his chamber at a private prayer--he bursts in wild-eyed and wild-haired, his blade naked and his breath coming fast. "Thou didst swear it," he says, hard and sudden, as though he's afraid that the words won't come any other way. "Thou didst _swear_ , and take my gage--"

"Swear to fight thee?" asks Edward. His sword is nowhere near to hand, but he gets to his feet with his hands held before him. Harry Percy scowls at him; the gesture is beneath his contempt (and Edward is not so old, yet; he knows what it is to be a boy who holds his elders in contempt). "I did swear; I own it."

"The king hath--" The boy swallows. Sweat is standing out on his brow, and it occurs to Edward for the first time that he's utterly terrified and masking it poorly. "Hath--"

"Forgiven me?" prods Edward, and young Percy flushes hotly. "It likes me no better than thee," says Edward with a faint laugh. "I'd die a dozen deaths in trial, and rise from the earth in want of more--I would I could sacrifice myself without end, an my death could buy one scrap of mercy--"

"Thou'lt have no mercy from me, nor any other," whispers Hotspur. "I'd have thee dead once, and an end to it."

Without lowering his hands, Edward takes a seat. The chair is only wood, and very plain wood at that; he cannot forget that he is in disgrace, although he has been forgiven his trespasses by the king himself. He might have been a regicide, but instead he has become an informer, and he cannot help feeling that there is no one whom he has not betrayed. "There will be no end to it," he says, bringing his palms to his knees and closing his fingers slowly over them. His bones feel loosely hinged; he feels they might come apart in an instant.

For a long moment, Harry watches him, the muscles in his jaw working as though he's searching for words or swallowing them down. "I would--" His eyes are very bright, and there's a peculiar hiccup to his voice that's more than anger. "I would--I would thou hadst slit his _throat_ , and--"

"And for it thou wilt slit mine? Go to, an thou hast the mettle; see, I bare it--" Edward raises his chin, closing his eyes. He senses his death close at hand; he can almost taste his own blood on his tongue, thick and sweet. The steel of Hotspur's sword will be cold, _achingly_ cold, cold as a winter in iron chains and a murder by night.

The soft slide of steel on leather makes Edward open his eyes with a sigh. There will be no respite in death tonight.

"I'll not murder thee," says Hotspur, with such a plain ache in his voice that Edward hears himself in every word. His sword is at his side, and his eyes are downcast. "When I threw down my gage, thou wert a creature of _fire_ \--I'd have seen thee deal a thousand deaths before dying a dozen, and I'd have matched thee gladly."

"Sit," says Edward, and Hotspur takes a seat. He fiddles idly with the edge of his robe, every twitch betraying how he longs to be gone. The soft light of the room's single candle casts half his face into shadow. "Hear me: make thy wars upon Scotland, and do it gladly; they are canny enemies, but noble for all that. To fight them is as noble as to hunt a fierce stag, and as merry--thy father has earned no little honor--" He's gratified to see Hotspur spring to his feet before he can finish, crossing the distance between them in two long strides.

"Why shouldst thou tell me to make war on Scotland?" he demands. He is so close that his long hair tickles Edward's cheek; his breath is hot and smells of sack. "What boots it? Is there a lord of Northumberland would shirk the borders for the sneering and the--the _politicking_ of the court?"

"Thou wouldst make war on me to vent thy rage, and be no more satisfied in satisfaction than thou art in challenge," answers Edward. His fingertips find Hotspur's wrist, and his hand closes on the pulsepoint; the boy doesn't throw him off. "What boots it, to burst in on my prayers and to call me to a trial of blades? It will not satisfy. Go to Scotland, and make thy wars there in the king's name until thou canst love that name like a father's."

"Speak not to me of fathers! I need--" He leans in as though he is going to press a kiss to Edward's lips, and Edward leans up to meet it, but then Hotspur's brow is pressing against his and his arm has gone around Edward's shoulders and he's shuddering as if he's about to come apart.

It occurs to Edward that Hotspur has never had a father to whom he could go with grief or fear or helplessness; he has never been able to drop his guard for a moment, for old Northumberland's sharp wit would feel out every weakness and prod it into strength. He would never have been able to crawl into his father's lap with a nightmare or a terror of dogs, or to ask for comfort and cosseting when too-rough play had split his lip or cut his hand, or to kneel at his father's feet and beg that he be forgiven his failures.

Edward wonders if anyone but a priest has ever offered Harry Percy real forgiveness; he wonders if the boy even remembers how to ask.

He closes his arms around Hotspur's back and holds him tightly, stroking slow circles into the taut muscles of his back. It isn't enough.

The boy never sobs, never lets a tear fall between them--but he clings, and Edward clings back.


End file.
